Currahee
by Hamtaro23
Summary: The story of a paratrooper in the 101st from DDay to the end of the war. T for violence, langauge and all that. RR.


**Currahee  
"We stand alone."  
**

1

June 5th, 1944  
Uppottery, England

The hypnotic engine drone mixing with the gushing wind from the open door and several airsickness pills was leading me off to dreamland. Consciousness was slipping away slowly, the war hasn't even begun and I was going to sleep through it. I blinked several times hoping to stay awake but my sight was becoming blurred, loosing focus and blackness was enveloping me. The smell of cigarette smoke and sweat filled my nostrils, beginning to wonder what ma and pa were doing back home. What Milly was doing, Milly.

My eyelids felt like weights and just when I succumbed to sleep, someone nudged me. I grunted, slowly sitting up in my seat and turning to see who it was that pulled me out of dreamland.

I was greeted by a smiling Charlie Meyers holding a cigarette, asking me for a light. I nodded and pulled my lighter from my pocket, handing it to him. A flare flickered near my face, illuminating the dark interior of the fuselage. I could just make out the light blonde locks sticking out from under Meyer's helmet, how it contrasted against the dark paint on his face and his sharp blue eyes. With a click the Zippo lighter shut and it returned to darkness.

"Here ya go," Meyers returned the lighter and I tucked it away, only to pull it out seconds later to light my own cigarette. Soon I join Meyers, puffing away at my tobacco. I never use to smoke before, but they do the trick, stress relief and all that. Had a calming affect on me and it might just keep me awake long enough.

I could roughly make out the outline of Marshall sitting three seats down and across from me, his helmet leaning slightly to the left like it always did. He was playing with his cricket, clicking it again and again. Marshall is my best friend, from the first day in basic to hopefully the end of the war. Next to him was Freddie Hughes, an avid fan of the Yankees being that he's from New York City and had a good sense of humor. You can trust him to make fun of just about anything.

I exhaled another puff of smoke and pondered the chance of surviving the jump. Even if I did make it out of the plane intact and supposing that I won't get killed before I can get out of my chute, I probably won't make it past D-Day plus one. I sighed and tossed the butt of my cigarette out the door, it was immediately swept away by the wind.

"Twenty minutes out!" I heard the pilot shout.

Hearing his queue, first lieutenant John Reynolds stood up and shouted, "Stand up and hook up!" This was the first set of orders prior to jumping.

In one simultaneous movement, all twenty something paratroopers in the plane stood up and hooked the line from their main chute to the anchor line running the length of the plane. I was standing number two, the second one out the door, right after the lieutenant.

The red light blinked on.

Here we go, the moment we've all been waiting for, the show's 'bout to start, don't screw up, the eyes of the world are upon you. I felt rather silly, like a kid before the start of the school play. It's not just your family members and classmates sitting in the audience, its entire freakin' world. Not just a play but a great crusade, no longer a damsel in distress but Nazi occupied France.

Hell, no pressure right? None what so ever. I dug into my pockets looking for my lighter and some cigarettes. I managed to get a cigarette in between my shaking fingers and produced the lighter. I placed the lighter back in my pocket, and puffed on my cigarette, I could see the coast line of France rushing past, the Norman countryside and my view was abruptly cut off by clouds.

"Equipment check! Sound off for equipment check!" The lieutenant hollered. This initiated the series of equipment checks, each man checking the gear of the man in front him and with a pat on the back and a shout, it would be passed on.

"Five okay!"

"Four okay!"

"Three okay!" Jason Collins a farm boy from Kansas in my squad patted me on the back and added, "Good luck, Sarge."

"Thanks," I said to him, "Two okay!"

And finally the lieutenant shouted, "One okay!" And we all waited for the final moment when the planes would slow down and the green light would come on. Suspense, never liked it, that moment before something big happens like waiting for your grades at the end of a school year, waiting for the announcement of the science fair winner, all those things couldn't compare to right now. This odd feeling in my stomach, a mix of fear, anxiety, steak and mashed potatoes was making me feel sick. Goddamn it! Get it over with, I die or I survive, what have you, get it over with! I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, almost crushing my cigarette in my fingers. Waiting, waiting for the tell tale sign of the plane slowing down.

But it never came. The fuckin' thing never slowed down, it kept on going, I swear it might have even sped up. What the hell is going on? My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by an explosion in the back. Someone was screaming, others cursing.

"Tommy's hit!" I picked out someone's voice from the chaotic shouting. Jesus, someone's already down, we didn't even jump yet.

That was our greeting from the German antiaircraft gunners, a shell in the rear of the plane. Welcome to France boys. Soon more flak came up, striking the thin metal that made the fuselage of the plane, breaking through like it was paper. Sounded like rocks in a tin can. The plane tossed and turned with each hit, sending the men everywhere. A sudden jolt sent me crashing into the side of the plane, forcing a chain of curses from me as I regained my footing.

"Fuck! Where the hell is the damned green light?" That was Cooper Jones, from Marshall's squad, a cheeky fellow from California. Number fourteen in the stick.

I soon found myself shouting as well, I wanted to get out of here, screw the light, lemme out, I don't want to die in this damned metal can. And then, like a miracle the green light turned on.

Lieutenant Reynolds took one look at the rest of us and mouthed "God be with you," and he was gone, swept away by the night.

I sighed, tossed away the cigarette, approached the door, took one look out and immediately regretted ever enlisting in the damned army. Well, too late now, it's Showtime.

The customary jerk of the opening of the parachute followed. I check that it deployed correctly and sighed, easy part's over, hard part's just beginning. A large crack and an explosion propelled me forward. Confused, I looked back, the plane's starboard engine just caught fire and exploded. I counted six chutes before the whole thing was engulfed in fire and sent spiraling towards the ground, lighting up the Norman countryside. Marshall better be one of those six troops or I'll be damned.

Pandemonium claimed the sky. Shells and multi colored tracers resembling fireworks raced to hit the target first. Black puffs of flak popped up everywhere. Burning planes on the ground, muzzle flashes of the antiaircraft guns, welcome to hell, Mark, you'll be staying a while.

* * *

**A/N**: Another attempt at a war story, posting it in the Medal of Honor section because…well that's a war game. RR, want some feedback, what liked, didn't like and all that. 


End file.
